


Just Relax

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Frottage, Kink Meme, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Watersports, i'm not even sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire doesn't seem like he minds inappropriate though. When has he ever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Relax

**Author's Note:**

> For this kink meme prompt: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11667.html?thread=1448851#t1448851

The knocking starts around the time that the tiny print on the page before him starts to run together. Enjolras jerks upright, rubbing his eyes furiously and narrowing them at the door. His pen had fallen from his slack hand some time ago, lost amongst the piles and piles of notes he's been sifting through in manic concentration since well before midnight. He pats around for it, grimacing.

“Who is it?” There's no use in being quiet- he's not waking anyone, not in this dorm. Exams tomorrow, and every other goddamn person in the hall was wide awake at two in the morning. His head throbs in time with the beat of the stereo.  _Go away._

“Lemme in,” slurs a familiar, garbled voice. It sounds as though his face is mushed against the door. Enjolras wants to punch him in the mouth- maybe he will. He has no patience left for this man.

“Go away, Grantaire,” he says as evenly as he can manage. Gods, he's tired. He ought to sleep, really ought to, or else he's going to fall asleep during his history exam in six hours, and that would be a spectacular loss of form on his part.

There's a pause and he almost lets himself hope that the resident drunk has slunk away again, maybe back to the party. Grantaire is older than the rest of them; he's not even a student, but most people don't know that. He's twenty-five, Enjolras recalls, doesn't even have a degree in anything- he's not even sure he ever attended this college, but he's always staggering about campus and he shows his ugly mug at all of their Student Government meetings, at every party. Wherever alcohol is served, really. Though that can't be the only reason. Still, Grantaire doesn't belong here, and Enjolras is torn between aggravation with his unwanted presence and a secret, grudging affection for the man who looks at him like he really  _is_ Apollo, a nickname that Enjolras is never going to admit to his fondness for.

A flurry of renewed knocking interrupts his sleep-deprived train of thought and Enjolras scowls, heaving himself out of his desk chair to stride to the door. He yanks the door open, stepping back as Grantaire stumbles inside, laughing obnoxiously.

“I knew you liked me,” he crows, falling into Enjolras' neatly made bed and making the other man's eye twitch dangerously. Taking a deep breath, Enjolras closes the door behind him and runs a hand through his blonde mop.  _Patience._  Grantaire is the type of man who requires a grand amount of patience on any given day, and especially at nearly three in the morning.

He can't kill him, he convinces himself, because then he would have to call Courfeyrac to help him dispose of the body- and Courf is fond of Grantaire, for whatever reason. He wouldn't approve.

Reigning in the urge to snap and throw the drunk out of his room altogether, he stares him down, blue eyes narrowed coolly. “I tolerate you. What are you doing here?”

“Whatsit look like? M'warming your bed for you,” R grins, sitting up with apparent difficulty steadying himself. He's disheveled and smells distinctly like his favorite whiskey- Jim Beam, never mind why Enjolras knows that- and cigars, which makes the blonde wrinkle his nose in distaste. Wonderful. He's going to have to wash his sheets now. “C'mon.” Grantaire beckons, as if he really expects Enjolras to join him.

“I don't recall inviting you over,” he continues as if the other man hadn't even spoken. To his dismay, his fatigue is wearing off, replaced with an uncomfortable heat in his stomach at the sight of Grantaire splayed across his pillows. Gods... “I have exams in the morning, you know.”

“You need to take a  _break_ ,” the drunkard nods enthusiastically, reaching for him. Enjolras takes a step backwards before his clumsy hand can find his wrist. He's red now, blushing and he wants to curse himself, but Grantaire isn't likely to notice or remember in this state.

At least there's that. Sometimes it's terribly convenient that Grantaire is perpetually intoxicated.

“I need no such thing,” he replies stiffly, averting his eyes and shoving his hands in his pockets. There's really no excuse for the discomfort he's exhibiting; but then, wouldn't anyone be uncomfortable with a strange man barging into their room at this hour? An older man, and a drunk one at that.

An  _older_ man, Gods. Enjolras grimaces. He ought to get his thoughts under control.

There are few things that Enjolras has ever failed to predict. He's a natural leader, cool and collected; a straight A student, a dedicated class President; a powerful speaker, an inspiring figure, a fierce advocate. Everyone expects something from him and he surpasses these expectations on a daily basis. Not once had he ever had a romantic urge, and sex was a phenomenon that he regarded as a necessary evil. But then this wild card who called himself Grantaire had staggered into his life, the antithesis of every regal trait that Enjolras possessed, and he'd found himself fascinated.

He tells himself that it's nothing, that he doesn't have to restrain himself from grabbing the cynic by the collar and pressing him into the nearest wall on a daily basis. Nothing and no one has ever captured his attention with so little effort. And  _this_ sort of attention, he has no idea how to handle.

“Oh, come on  _Apollo_ , even the gods need to relax once in a while,” R wheedles, fumbling for his wrist again. He looks in serious danger of toppling over the side of the bed and cracking his head on the nightstand, so (reluctantly) Enjolras steps into his range and fights the exasperation slipping onto his face. He's glad that he's wearing baggy pajama bottoms, because Grantaire's face is alarmingly close and he feels like he could melt into the floor.

What  _is_  it about this man? He's not even attractive. But gods, he is to Enjolras.

With his hand wrapped firmly around his wrist, aforementioned drunk tugs him forward and Enjolras has no choice but to stumble into his own bed, nearly falling right on top of him. His face flames and he feels his mouth tighten, hating that he can't control the reaction. Exams, he reminds himself, notes, politics. Anything but Grantaire's hot breath on his neck as he drags him down closer to him. He needs all of his wits about him to keep his hips shifted away from the other man's, breathing hard, trying weakly to tug himself away.

“Haven't you ever heard of personal space?” he manages, alarmed at the way that things are going. This isn't what he should be doing. It's late, or early, he needs to study, he needs to sleep! But Grantaire is being incredibly distracting- and Courfeyrac isn't around to look smug about it- and damn, but his mind is running away with him, and he doesn't  _want_ any personal space right now.

He wants to turn the tables, grip his wrists, slam him back into the mattress.

No- that's  _entirely_ inappropriate!

There has to be something wrong with him...

Grantaire doesn't seem like he minds inappropriate though. When has he ever? He reaches up, those dark eyes glowing with mischief, tangling a hand in that golden hair and Enjolras knows he's lost. He hisses, squeezing his eyes shut. “Grantaire,” he warns.

“Apollo?” he asks cheekily, tugging again. Does he understand what he's doing to him? Does he understand that he's spread out on Enjolras bed and there's nothing but a few easily-disposed-of layers of clothing between them, preventing him from acting out his shameful fantasies? Somehow he can't imagine that Grantaire would mind- he never minds anything but his bottle and whatever Enjolras happens to be saying- but he's  _not allowed._ Damn it.

Damn it, Grantaire...

It's inevitable really, when the next time the other man opens his mouth to make a smart remark Enjolras attacks. He captures his lips near-violently, gripping his shoulder tightly as he does it, straddling the other man before he can talk himself out of it. It's three a.m. and Grantaire is in his  _godforsaken bed_  and he's not fighting it, groaning into his mouth, arms wrapping eagerly around his blonde counterpart's neck. And Enjolras takes every inch of him he can. His mouth travels lower, not pausing once as he kisses him quickly down his jaw, wet pecks and then bites a series of angry exclamations onto his neck. He's so sick of denying himself when the offer was right there, so ostentatious at times that he could die of the embarrassment. Right now he's anything but embarrassed. He's hard, grinding down against his thigh, and Grantaire-

Isn't?

Enjolras jerks back, cursing himself, and if Grantaire hadn't caught him by the wrist  _he_ would be toppling over the side of the bed. The air in the room is headier now, thick with lust and the prologue to what promised to be a long, sweaty night that they would  _never speak of again._ But not- not like this. Not if Grantaire was too impaired to be enjoying it.

Hormones be damned, he was no rapist.

"Apollo," the other man groans, trying to tug him back atop him. His fingers are calloused and large, much larger than Enjolras' delicate wrists, and wrapped easily around them. He certainly  _sounded_ like he'd been enjoying himself. "Don't stop yet. At least wait until morning to kick me out. Give me this, I deserve it, I've been so patient-"

He would almost certainly continue rambling on that note until he passed out from the alcohol or exhaustion but Enjolras shakes his head, terse. Pointedly, he looks down and pulls at his wrist. R makes no move to let him go.  _Fuck._ "You're drunk," he says, as levelly as is possible when all of the blood normally circulating your brain is having a party in your pants.

"I'm always drunk." Is it just him, or is Grantaire pouting? His lower lip juts a little, still red and swollen from his teeth, and he wants obscenely to lick it.  _Stop._ Hell, this is hell, he's got himself convinced. Nowhere else would he be so royally fucked for concentration. Now he's going to fail in the morning and he'll have to blame Grantaire for it, make him pout some more so he can suck his lip back into his mouth and grind against his leg-

He shakes his head furiously, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a palm to his erection as if to warn it.  _Down boy._ Gods, it really is three a.m. Grantaire is attempting to sit up, but Enjolras is sitting on his legs in the most awkward of positions and as he folds he grimaces, twitching. Enjolras opens his mouth to tell him not to throw up on his bed, under any circumstances, and to  _get out of his room_ but he's dark red now and reaching to knock the golden boy's hand away and stroking deliberately at him through his pants.

Enjolras does  _not_ moan. At all.

He sets his jaw tensely, beginning to wriggle away although Grantaire has a hold of his wrist with the hand that isn't kneading him in a most convincing manner. "I'm not taking advantage of you. Go sleep it off-" The thought of Grantaire falling into somebody elses' bed in this state makes the beast in his chest snarl possessively. Even if it were Courfeyrac - and that was a best case scenario, it could be anyone- could he really justify sending him back out there like this...?

The answer is no, of course. He hates that he's rational. He hates that his zipper is going to leave teeth-marks in his dick and he's not going to get laid tonight with the guy that's finally broken him down and gotten him  _this close,_ so fucking close, and he's losing his train of thought because Grantaire is still kneading-touching-fondling-stroking and he can't open his eyes, can't do anything but lean into him and pant, "Go home."

"If I really thought you wanted me to, 'Pollo, I would," he hears purred back at him and then his resistance is shattered as he's bodily brought back on top of him. Grantaire is still far from hard, and it's suspicious to say the least, but he's willing to disregard it with a thigh between his legs rubbing purposefully up and fingers creeping up to pull his zipper down.

There is no good reason for him to deny him now. Not even the fact that he's sweating and lurching up all of a sudden, swallowing audibly and releasing him so that he's throbbing and no one is touching him-

His eyes snap open, blazing blue, his lips parted as he struggles to catch his breath. "You can't be serious." Enjolras can't remember a time that his nerves had been so on edge, that he'd been this hard, wanted something (someone) this much. It's an indulgence he will feel guilty about, but later. Right now he finds the other man's wrists and twists them up over his head again, taking control of the situation like he should have ten minutes ago. Now, with their hips pressed together and his blood hot in his cock, he stares down at him incredulously.

Grantaire squirms and winces, and he almost looks like a guilty child. "I just- I remembered something. I swear I'll be back."

"Unless it's to pop a fucking Viagra I don't care," the blonde hisses, his hips thrusting slightly forward of their own accord. It's much harder to think right now, sleep-deprived and hornier than he'd thought himself capable of, than he could have fathomed a few hours ago. Grantaire struggles only weakly, staring at him like he's some kind of god even though he says he wants up. He wonders vaguely if he should let him go anyways. This might be a bad idea, he might regret this, but Grantaire...

"I want you," R moans, torn over something Enjolras doesn't understand. He furrows his eyebrows, a live wire struggling to see through him. It's no use- never is, with Grantaire, though he tries and he  _tries._ Now instead of squirming he's arching up and their bodies press together, sparking Enjolras' hips forward again with a gasp.

They rut together like teenagers. Enjolras is glad that it's Grantaire in his bed, to be honest, because anyone else might make fun of him for this but Grantaire has no pride and would want him if he were shiny with grease and smelled like a sewer. Again, he will feel guilty later rather than now because now he has more  _pressing_ matters to attend and with the way Grantaire is canting up against him he's a hundred and four percent sure that he's not in the wrong.

 _I want you,_ he'd said, for the first time in plain English. Enjolras wants him, too.

But once again he tenses up beneath him, stilling and blinking blearily up at him in something like humiliation. "Enjolr- I have to-"

He doesn't get the rest of his sentence out before Enjolras feels it. It's hot and wet against his thigh, a steady stream, and it lights up his already oversensitive nerves and before he knows it he's groaning, thrusting down against him, into that heat. Some part of him realizes that  _Grantaire just pissed his bed_ but Grantaire is making those unbearable little whining noises as he clutches at his shoulders and pushes  _up_ and as the stream dies down, already soaked through the both of their pants, Enjolras can feel him growing almost instantly hard to match.

"Mention this to anyone," he pants, struggling to sound even remotely threatening with his cock aching and his nails digging into Grantaire's hips. "And I will personally have you assassinated."

"Oh God-" R is apparently too far gone to do more than sob out nonsensical exclamations and yank him down to mouth at his neck, curls tickling his chin. Enjolras can't say he minds. He'll think about this later, when he's not focused on unbuttoning his pants with deft fingers, managing to take both of them in hand in record time. He pointedly ignores that the slick on their cocks is definitely not precome and smells a little funny, squeezing them both and setting about stroking them at a breakneck pace. So much for taking his time, savoring this.

" _Enjolras,"_ the drunk chokes, hot against his neck, hot like everything else, and Enjolras barely has time to wonder why this, of all things, is turning him on before the friction is too much to bear and he thrusts once, twice, and comes in short spurts against the other man's skin.

Grantaire's eyes go wide at the sensation of it. They're lying in a soggy mess as it is, and a little ejaculate isn't hurting anyone at this point. He gasps and arches his back as Enjolras twists his wrist and  _pulls_ the orgasm from him with a thumb on the head of his cock, and now they're both covered.

There is a heartbeat of calm following the onslaught and Enjolras lowers himself, slowly, to lie beside him in the rapidly cooling sheets. It should be uncomfortably damp but he finds that it doesn't bother him. Grantaire is warm next to him, a solid presence and unexpected comfort, and he rolls to face the blonde with a slow, shaky exhale and a grin.

"Kinky, Apollo," he murmurs, brushing his thumb apologetically over the marks he'd undoubtedly left on his neck. Enjolras licks his lips; he's not blushing, not at all, doesn't blush ever and Grantaire can kindly fuck off if he says otherwise.

He doesn't really want him to leave, however. This may not have been exactly how his fantasies had gone in his head - it was wildly off course, actually, a complete deviation but again he's  _not complaining_ and maybe he should be slightly more ashamed than he is for enjoying it so much - but it was still Grantaire. He grumbles, then, instead and whacks him halfheartedly on the arm as he burrows closer. "Stop calling me that."

The older man shifts and suddenly they're pressed together, no less intimate than before. His lips are at Enjolras' forehead now, pressing there in thanks, and his voice is a husky, whiskey-scented whisper. "I suppose I can do that. I did just ruin your sheets. I owe you."

"Just come back tomorrow night," Enjolras tells him, and that is that.

They don't talk about it again except for Enjolras to reluctantly peel himself out of bed, minutes later, to change the sheets. The mattress beneath is ruined. Grantaire is too busy laughing at the rumpled state of his hair to comment.

He wishes he regretted any of it, but with Grantaire curled up warm and close with him in a sleeping bag on the floor he can't even begin to. Studying is the last thing on his mind- for the first time in months he's not sexually frustrated, he doesn't hate everything, and he can just  _relax._

He aces his test in the morning.


End file.
